


Pre Stressed Post Tensioned

by pettiot



Series: Professionals Timeline [9]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Post Adrenaline Downer, Post Episode Vignette, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-23
Updated: 2011-04-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:47:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22302835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettiot/pseuds/pettiot
Summary: After the events in Close-Quarters, Bodie broods himself into a corner.
Series: Professionals Timeline [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1600894
Kudos: 1





	Pre Stressed Post Tensioned

One sidewards delivered comment by the clean-up crew, on 3.7's inability to act with any form of integrity when there was a woman around he was trying to impress.

Doyle held him back, shouting something at the rookie all the while; the B-Squad agent looked appropriately cowed; somewhere within his current self-protective disassociation, Bodie found the strength to pull back and deliver a blinding, patronising smile.

'Try? Mate, I don't _try_.'

'Very impressive,' Doyle added, still glaring at the other. His arm went from a steel bar across Bodie's chest to comforting hand on his spine, between his shoulders, where the post-tensioning was hunching him over. 'Come on, car's over there.'

Bodie never saw who took Julia home. By then he had sufficiently detached from the circumstance he shouldn't have cared. Except once Doyle got him home, the fear spilled out, Doyle shouting at Bodie this time. Idiot, overreacting, no RT, what the hell was he thinking. Thinking, Jesus Christ, Doyle! No one thought in situations like that.

Bodie forgot himself, clenched his newly tended and bandaged fists, and nearly passed out despite the pills. Doyle's tirade carried him beyond noticing.

'Was that it, then?' Doyle demanded of Bodie's silence, suddenly calm and dangerous. 'Showing off in front of that stupid bint? Because I can't think of another reason for you acting like a—'

Thinly, 'Don't be an idiot, Doyle.'

'Take your own advice, will you?'

The door slammed.

Bodie fell face-first to his bed, and wondered if he had the energy left to be disappointed. Twenty minutes later, Doyle slammed back in and threw himself to a protesting sofa, bringing a thick and wounded silence with him.

'Apology accepted,' Bodie said loudly, mostly into his pillow.

Doyle's laugh, resigned and rueful, filled the lounge.

Bodie fell asleep.

.

He might have forgotten the rookie's flyaway comment, except it was simply another episode in the series which had followed him through the army, the SAS, and right into the CI5 locker room. A mercenary, out in the wilds with no women for weeks, and everyone knew Bodie did not ever stint on sex. No wonder he was mad for it.

No women? No _women_? Did they think he'd fought his wars on the moon? In what country on this earth were there no women?

Grandmothers, mothers, daughters, sisters. Bent, shawled and stumbling, middle-aged and worn, young and desperate, children. He never looked at any of them as though they were women, or he a man: he was a soldier, and they were people out of context. Unless they were armed, but then they were soldiers, not women.

In the cities, it was different. He could see women in cities. Tourists mostly, or expatriates, the occasional local woman with enough power, wealth, whiteness or daring to be looking for a good night out without fear of consequence or reprisal. The men had been a choice for him, not a necessity. Fuck the CI5 grapevine, anyway.

But London – ah, now. Choices all around, and a whole different set of risks. Bodie was quite willing to risk feminine rejection in England; women here were on an equal footing, no fear of death or reprisal swaying their responses to him, or so he assumed. He loved flirting, and there wasn't nearly so much value for money when there was no risk of failure.

Bodie had liked Julia; she was sharp and a little bit mocking. Not like Michelle, who had been frighteningly compliant after their first time in bed together, and so disinterested in conversation with him he felt ashamed every time he tried.

Julia, never soft, lots of spunk. Had he ever actually thought that?

Now. Inge. Inge had been carrying a gun. She was a soldier, and in the end Doyle had shot her like one where Julia failed.

Julia.

_I have no idea what your fight is about. I just know it means violence and killing, and someone's got to stop you._

Who had she said that to? Franz, or to _him_?

Bodie hadn’t been able to get his head on straight, with Julia. His neat pigeonholing, all his careful categorisations smashed apart by her lack of faith. He had expected Julia to be a soldier or at least smart enough to know when to submit to the order of a professional; had treated her as such, curt orders, directives. Irritated when she argued with him. Clearly he was the commanding officer here? But then he remembered. England. Civilisation. Women.

So, he did what he did with women, and comforted her, bit his lip and listened to her torturous and embarrassing attempts to find some acceptable moral justification for his actions, attempted to joke, horrified her with his callousness, comforted her again, until the next time he forgot where he was and treated her like a soldier. Expecting her to obey, trusting her to do so, suffering a shock every time he realised she simply _would not watch his back_.

Bodie never had nightmares that he could recall, but after that harrowing day, he woke with an odd feeling, sick, high in his chest like anxiety, dazed on painkillers and the shock realisation. Bodie had never doubted Julia capable of watching his back. Strong, sharp, smart. She simply chose to do otherwise.

Well. Why else had he come back to England, if not for the choices? He could hardly scorn her for making hers, but—

The thought of her made him feel ill. She helped him, sure. He hadn't trusted her an inch. He had trusted Franz more than her. Bodie knew _exactly_ what the bastard terrorist was trying to do. Julia, he had no idea.

The more he thought about Julia, the less sympathy he had.

.

'Yeah, what? I'm busy recuperating!'

'2.9. Your girlfriend's been trying to get in touch with you, 3.7. Says she can't get through on your line.'

'S'off the hook. Someone kept ringing.'

'Well, don't let Alpha hear you're giving HQ's number out to your casuals. I don't appreciate taking personal messages for you, you know.'

'Jesus— Look, thanks, but just tell her I'm out of reach—'

'Too late. She's on her way, as of about twenty minutes ago.'

Without any emphasis, Bodie let the red phone fall back into its cradle. Through the conversation, his gaze hadn't turned from the television, nor focused to any sharpness.

Now Julia was knocking at his door. Someone must have let her in at the lobby.

Bodie did not move from the couch. He continued to stare at the telly, which was serenely uncomplicated and did exactly what he told it to, when he told it to do it.

She knocked again, longer this time. ‘Bodie? Your car’s here! And so is Doyle’s. Will you let me in, please? Bodie!’

Again. Bodie contemplated the effort of rising and turning up the volume. She'd give up soon, wouldn't she?

Prone, his ankles crossed over the arm of the sofa, Doyle let his book droop to his chest. ‘Want me to—?’

‘No.’

Again.

Doyle raised his eyebrows. ‘Could be apology time again, you know. With benefits.'

'Only if it's her apology, not mine.'

'You think she wants to apologise?’

‘I don’t care what she thinks.’

Doyle looked astounded, then he grinned.

In Doyle's experience, Bodie treated women as so different to his own substance all he could do was admire the forms and functions from an aesthetic perspective. An outsider looking in, terribly polite in a territory not his own, glad to visit and never to stay. He offered little comment on their personalities, or on their leaving him as the consequence of some kind of emotional disappointment he had caused and could have prevented. Women were quite capable of managing themselves, of working out what they wanted and how to get it entirely without his input, and Bodie was always surprised at the suggestion anything he did could possibly affect them. Time shared with women was nice, wonderful, but not necessary.

But if someone like Julia could get through, could _piss Bodie off_...

Doyle lifted his book, content with the thought of Bodie's smug self-sufficiency shaken, then lowered it again when Julia called—

‘Bodie, _please_ — Oh, come on, stop sulking! I want to talk to you!’

‘Bet she’d give you a bit more than dry relief, though, with that tone of voice. Apology sex, best kind of— Hmm?’

Bodie frowned at Doyle, who was drifting on some tide of wistful thought, smiling at him warmly.

Face down an army together. They might argue between salvos, but there was never any doubt about what Doyle would do.

Trust, not sex. Doyle never worked out there was a distinction, Bodie supposed, the embarrassing way he went on about _them_ at times. Julia could have had sex with a stranger in Bodie’s bed, and he would have raised an eyebrow and maybe offered some pointers. There was no way to explain how she had completely betrayed him. He hadn't expected her to be Doyle; he had expected her to be on his side.

‘Prefer your handjobs, to be honest.’

Doyle lifted his book. 'You're welcome to them. I'll save them up for you, seeing as I won't be needing them. As _I_ have a prior engagement tonight. With—'

'Gemma, physiotherapist, I know, I was in the bloody room at the time. I want double quota, mind.'

Bodie raised his hands, and radiated complacent helplessness. Doyle's grin showed around the edges of his raised book.

'—I am getting _angry_ , Bodie— I fired a gun for you, I nearly _killed someone for you_ , I put up with all of that, the least you can _fucking do_ is talk to me like I'm a human being—'

'She pulled the shot, you know. Nothing wrong with her aim. Just...no balls.'

Doyle, groaning. 'Grow up, would you?'

After a moment, Bodie levered himself up, and carefully used the sides of his injured hands to coax the volume higher, until the telly was blaring. If Julia didn’t get the picture now, _he_ wasn't to blame for her self-deceptions, was he?

  



End file.
